


Two

by Noemail



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noemail/pseuds/Noemail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two of them meet. They survive and stick together. One of them drifts away, into the unknown, where the other can't follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic skips the Gangsta: Cursed timeline. It mostly occurs pre-Gangsta manga. That is, them in their initial years as handymen/benriya.

Worick is fifteen when he starts working the streets but it’s not until eighteen that he’s ‘formally’ in the business. The first time he sets foot in a brothel what immediately clings to his memory is the smell of perfume. Its as subtle as a punch to the gut and so sickly sweet it’s nauseating. Colours are the other thing that sticks. Or just one really, and that’s red. Red doors, red curtains, red sheets. It spreads through every crevice of the building. Even the woman he was told to look for, Big Mama, sits there in front of him in a red gown with a plunging neckline. She looks to be in her early fifties and has a splendid set of tits. Worick had followed the woman upstairs once he had asked for her at the door and now they both sat in what Worick assumed was her office.

“So, Wallace.” She says, crossing her legs as she leans back on the chair and takes a long drag out her cigarette holder. When she saw Worick sat down on the chaiselongue of the hall, feet dangling from the couch, she couldn’t help but think that despite his age he still looked like a kid who lost his mother at the market on a busy Sunday. She was taken by surprise, really. Big Mama’s had many girls come to her door, as young as sixteen, but never a boy. She’s not experienced in dealing with male escorts and the kid could end up being more of a liability than a profit, so she’s hesitating. “This is a ladies call house, honey. I don’t do men, that’s Digiorno’s turf. You oughta look for him instead.”

“You don’t need to train me.” Worick says. Big Mama raises an eyebrow, interested. “I’ve been doing it for for four years.”

“On your own?” Big Mama asks, skeptic, the cigarette holder dangling between her fingers. “No hustler?”

“On my own.” He says, holding the woman’s gaze.

“Well aren’t you quite the businessman.” Big Mama jokes, smiling, but then her tone is serious. “But that ain’t wise, you know. To be out there by yourself, and so young.”

“Which is why I’m here.”

Worick’s voice is unwavering and Big Mama realises that despite looking like a lost puppy he’s fully aware of what he’s doing. She takes a long drag and lets the smoke escape through pursed lips in a long exhale before she speaks. “You’re gonna have to use another name if you wanna work for me. None of my girls keep their birth names.”

“I’ll think of something.” Worick says.

“Think of something now before I change my mind.”

“Uh.” Worick blanks, taking a minute. “Worick?”

“Fine by me.” The woman leaves the cigarette holder on top of an ashtray and leans in closer to examine him. She holds his face with a strong grip, makes him open his mouth and checks his teeth. Worick doesn’t know whether he feels like a patient at a doctor’s office or a race horse about to be sold off at an auction. “Healthy.” She says, speaking to herself. Her hand stays folded below her chin like she’s thinking. She observes Worick in silence then squints, tapping her left temple with her index finger. “What about this?”

“Not from birth.” Worick says. He lowers his gaze slightly, to his hands which are resting on his lap. “Can’t conceal it, either. I’ve tried. The scar is big, it shows.”

“Don’t worry about that. As long as you see fine with your right one.” She says, flapping her hand in the air dismissively. “It’s not gonna hinder you when it comes to attracting customers, it’ll help. You’d be too polished otherwise. You already got a pretty face, this adds charm.”

Worick looks up and smiles and thats when Big Mama gets sold on him as the full package. She nods to herself and takes the cigarette holder back between her fingers, drawing it to her lips and taking a drag. She blows the smoke out slowly and notices Worick licks his lips. Big Mama stands up and reaches out for the drawer in her desk, taking out a rosary, a room key and a pack of smokes. She’s about to hand them to Worick but withholds them at the last minute like she just thought of something.

“Women _and_ men?”

Worick looks up at her and blinks. Big Mama is staring down at him and her heeled foot taps impatiently on the old tiled floor.

“Time is money, boy.” She says.

“Yes.”

Big Mama smiles, handing him the goods.

“Room 02. You can sleep here if you’ve got no other place to go but I want no one else but you and your clients on that bed. We clear?” Worick nods and the woman smiles wide again, patting him on the shoulder before she walks out the room. “You’re gonna make big bucks, Worick.”

On his first week Worick makes enough money for him and Nicolas to be able to have their first hot meal of Winter. Nicolas doesn’t ask where the money comes from, the lipstick on Worick’s clothes is enough of a hint. After the first month they’re able to afford to rent a room for the night. Though Worick spends most of his nights at _Pussy_ he still drops by on his breaks, leaving Nicolas enough to pay the landlady and some spare change for him to have breakfast somewhere. Most nights Nicolas is wide awake. He’s used to being on guard. He’d insist on doing the longest turn when they still slept on the street and just sat there, alert and ready while Worick slept. After a full year they no longer have to worry about whether they’ll be able to feed themselves and it’s at that point that Worick gets hooked. On the security that it brings, the stability. He doesn’t look back.

\---

When he’s twenty five Nicolas makes a suggestion. They now live in the room they used to rent for the night. They rent it one week at a time, still weary of settling roots anywhere. They’ve been wanderers for most of their lives and thats a difficult thing to shake off.

 _I’ve got a very specific skillset. And so do you._ Nicolas signals. He sits perched up on the windowsill, one of his legs dangling outside of it. Worick stands in front of the bathroom door after having taken a shower, hair dripping wet and towel around his hips. He’d just come back from a job.

“Well let’s call up Big Mama then. I’m sure she’s got a spot for you.” Worick grins and Nicolas raises an eyebrow.

_Not that one._

Worick laughs. Nicolas makes a gesture with his head towards a smoking cup of coffee on the table.

“Ohh, aren’t you nice.” Worick says, smiling as he walks toward the table. He takes a sip and it tastes black and bitter, the way he likes it. When he looks up from the cup Nicolas continues.

 _You’re good with your gun._ He signals. Worick had saved up enough money to buy himself a handgun. He’d been practicing and he’d gotten pretty good at it. Though he’d never used it on anybody he was prepared to if a situation called for it. _I'm good with the sword. We can sell that._

“Sell it like a service?” Worick asks, unconvinced.

_Big Mama sells love like a service. We can sell this._

“She sells sex.” Worick corrects. He glances at the gun holster resting next to his scrunched up shirt on the table before he moves his gaze back to Nic. “Hitmen, huh.”

_We wouldn’t call it that._

“Not unless you want the cops at our door the day of the grand opening.” Worick snorts. He watches Nicolas lift his arms to signal again but stop mid-way, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying really _really_ hard to come up with something. Worick smiles. “We’ll figure something out.”

 _It would bring in a lot of money. Killing someone smoothly is expensive._ Nicolas continues like Worick still needs convincing, and Worick lets him. _You wouldn’t have to-_

“Nic, its fine. I’m in.” Worick says, interrupting him. Nicolas seems thrown off guard by how quickly the other makes up his mind.

_You sure?_

“Yes.” Worick says, and he’s smiling.

Worick had worked at _Pussy_ for for eight years. Big Mama had been kind to him, like a mother. A mother with the mouth of a sailor and who smoked like a chimney, but a mother. Worick loved that woman and he’d be grateful to her forever, but it was time. She gave him no qualms when it came to dismissing him and handled it as professionally as when she first hired him. Though Worick swears he saw her sniff some tears into the handkerchief she kept stuffed between the large set of knockers. She was in her sixties now and they looked as splendid as ever.

“Handymen?” She’d asked, a bewildered expression on her face before Worick mimicked a gun with his hand and made a comical _pew pew_ sound that made Big Mama cackle wildly. “You really ain’t made for a quiet life, are you? I’ll let you know if this place ever needs a coat of paint, the red’s a bit faded. You take care.”

She saw him to the door and before leaving Worick reached into his pocket and pulled out the rosary she’d given to him on their first meeting. His intent was to return it to her along with the key to his room but she wildly refused.

“Now whaddya think I gave you that for, you idiot?” She’d said, clearing her throat. She’d reached out to grab it and put it back in the front pocket of Worick’s shirt, then swatted him sharply on the arm. Worick almost winced in pain from the strength of the hit. “Protection for when I cannot be there. Keep it.”

Big Mama was foul-mouthed, as blunt with her words as the back of a knife. She’d used sex as a tool for survival all her life and didn’t shy away from the fact, as her position of Madame made obvious. None of that had gotten in the way of her being a deeply religious person. Even to this day Worick remembered seeing her cross herself before ever leaving the house. She made sure all her girls carried some kind of amulet, no matter which faith. Worick didn’t believe, never really had and he wouldn’t start now. He would just keep the rosary as per her request.

Worick waved goodbye once he’d recovered from the hit, Big Mama watching him walk away until the other faded into a tiny dot in the distance. Sentimentality was a waste of time, especially in her trade, and she knew they’d see each other around despite him no longer being under her roof. Yet despite that it felt like the end of an era and because of that Big Mama allowed herself some wistful sadness. She stood still at the doorsteps of her house for some time before she went back in to administer the place. No time for tears, she was back to business.

\---

For the Handymen business is slow. These kinds of services are only made known to the people who need them by word of mouth and since they’re only newly established for the first few months they struggle. They end up taking anything; from running errands to finding lost pets and even then it's not enough to get a steady flow of cash coming in, and god knows they need it. Its no longer just rent and food, now it’s also medicine. Expensive medicine, even with Theo’s discount. Worick realises quickly that he has to take jobs on the side if they want to keep up a decent quality of life. He does it reluctantly, like anyone would when they’ve taken distance from the profession. But he’s done it for so long that he doesn’t have a hard time finding a couple regulars that won’t give him much trouble. Even if he does it reluctantly he doesn’t hesitate because the threat of poverty is always around the corner for strays like them, and they’ve already endured enough misery. He does what he has to do.

After half a year they seem to have made a name for themselves. Income is steady again and life is peaceful, as peaceful as it can be in Ergastulum, yet Nicolas still has trouble sleeping at night. He’s on edge like he was when they were eighteen and they were renting the place at nights, still not used to having his own bed. They slept on the floor when they were on the streets and Nicolas doesn’t recall having ever slept anywhere else during his early childhood either. He dislikes the cushiony mattress, it feels foreign to him. Just like the velvet upholstering of the Arcangelo estate chairs had felt. Five years into renting that same room Nicolas still sets up guard whenever he can’t sleep. He sits there, awake and ready for something that never comes.

Worick hasn’t been getting that much sleep, either. He’s never been a deep sleeper and has these periods of shaken-awake nightmares that haunt him no matter the state of things. Worick could be off living it up in some paradisiac island of the caribbean and he’d still wake up with a cold sweat and palpitations from time to time. Its a drag but Worick’s learned to live with it. One night he gets shaken awake, and it’s like always. His chest is tight and he sits there, in bed, catching his breath as he lets his head hang low - cursing through gritted teeth. He’s used to it but for some reason they’re becoming more frequent and _that's_ what’s starting to tick him off.

“Shit.” He says, whispered. He runs a hand through his hair and he swallows, trying to get rid of the dry throat. When he lowers his hand he notices it shaking and he closes it up in a tight fist. _Shit._

Worick stands up and goes to take a piss and when he’s walking back to the room he sees Nicolas. He sits on the floor, at the top of the stairs, cradling his sword. Worick smiles because it's not an unfamiliar sight. He goes to the kitchen and reheats some leftover coffee, then comes back.

Worick turns on the lights and taps the other on the shoulder so he can become aware of his presence. “What are you doing?”

Nicolas furrows his brow, squinting at the brightness of the lights, looking back at Worick with a tired expression.

_What does it look like._

Worick snorts because him being grouchy when he’s sleep deprived is never gonna stop being funny. He sits down next to him, handing him one of the cups of coffee. Nicolas sees that there's two of them and looks at Worick questioningly.

“I can’t sleep either.” Worick says. Nicolas lets his sword rest against the wall and grabs the cup, taking a sip. They sit there on the stairs, in silence, until the sun comes up.

Worick has a job in the morning so he showers, gets dressed and leaves. Nicolas stays sat on the stairs and waits for him to come back. The smell of cologne lingers well after he’s closed the door behind him, impregnating the room. Nicolas can’t pinpoint exactly what it smells like. It’s strong but not vulgar and certainly not cheap, Worick makes that very clear every time Nicolas borrows it without asking. Worick retains a liking for simple luxuries. A crisp white shirt, polished shoes. Nicolas knows it’ because there’s still something of the little bourgeois left in him and he just finds it funny, he’s got no intention of holding it against him. The other might have been born into old money but his very existence was swept under the rug. He was the embarrassment, the secret, the bastard. Worick didn’t get much joy out of being born advantaged so Nicolas could understand why he’d treat himself to lavish goods once in a while. Nicolas sniffs the air again and comes to the conclusion that the scent is, above all, decadent.

The woman pays him well and Worick thinks she better because the whole stunt he has to do to avoid her husband leaving for work as he approaches the house is ridiculous. When he comes back to the house its around noon and Nicolas is nowhere to be found but there’s a bowl of soup on the table. There’s also a note stuck to Worick’s old radio. He smiles when he picks it up and reads the scribbled handwriting. He turns the radio on and sits down to eat, the soup is nothing grand but it’s still hot. There’s a click on the door when he’s halfway through finishing it and then the sound of steps. Nicolas stands at the top of the stairs, a paper bag in his hands.

 _Theo_. He signals. _Deliveries_. _This last one’s for us._

Worick nods, elbow perched on the back of the chair - having turned to look at him. He half smiles, gesturing to the soup.

“Compliments to the chef.” He says, smiling. Nicolas doesn’t respond. He walks towards him and leaves the paper bag on the table. When he’s near Worick Nicolas notices the smell of cologne has faded. Worick watches him wrinkle his nose and arches an eyebrow but before he can even check under his armpits the other is already signaling.

_You smell like marriage._

Worick snorts.

“What the hell does a marriage smell like?” He laughs.

 _Rank._ Nicolas signals. Worick laughs harder. _Take a shower._

“Alright, jeez. At least let me finish.” He chuckles, picking up the bowl to slurp up the rest. Nic’s gaze moves from Worick to the radio. He taps the top of it with his index finger.

 _Who’s playing._ He signals to Worick, having noticed the antenna is stretched all the way up. That old machine almost never got ahold of signal anymore but Worick said that as long as they left it on the same the station it still managed to catch some tunes once in a while.

“Mingus.” Worick says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after he puts the bowl down.

Mingus. Worick liked Mingus. He liked Lester Young too, and Sinatra. Nicolas remembered.

 _Good?_ Nicolas signals. Worick smiles at him, wide and happy.

“Great.”

_What’s it like?_

Worick’s expression falls like he feels ashamed for letting himself enjoy the music with Nicolas in the room. Even if it is a ridiculous thought he still feels like he’s not supposed to.

“It’s-” Worick starts, unsure of how to continue. He really isn’t the most indicated person to answer a question like that. He doesn’t even know why he likes a certain type of music over another. “I dont know, it depends on who’s listening. I like this but it could easily give someone else a headache.”

Worick chuckles and Nicolas tilts his head. He says nothing but Worick understands thats him asking for more information.

“It’s disorganized.” Worick says, trying his best to paint a picture for the other. “It doesn’t make sense and it’s loud. It makes you want to dance.”

Worick looks up at the other and waits for a reaction. He’s tried his best to put it into words. Nicolas stares back at him, smiling ever so lightly before he signals.

_Fitting._

Worick opens his mouth but Nicolas looks away. He takes something out the paper bag and walks towards his bedroom. Nicolas signals _shower_ again and pats Worick on the shoulder. He squeezes lightly before he slides his hand away, out of sight for Worick once he turns the hallway corner.Worick sits there for a little bit longer, trying to decode the meaning of the other’s comment. After a couple minutes he gives up and stands, making his way to the bathroom.

Nicolas doesn’t emerge from the room for dinner. Worick makes himself an omelette, or at least he tries to. When he’s about to head for bed he checks Nic’s room and finds him completely K.O’d on the bed, limbs stretched out and sprawled on top of the sheets like a cat basking in the sun. Worick snorts loudly, still not used to seeing him like this even though he’s aware that when Nic does manage to get some shut eye he sleeps like a rock. Worick leans on the doorframe, the wood creaking under his grip when he squeezes it lightly just before he pulls away. He hums something of Mingus as he walks down the small hallway to his room.

The following morning is quiet. Worick wakes up late because he doesn’t have anything scheduled for the day. He sits at the table with a cup of coffee and a lit cigar, looking out the window as he smokes. It’s around half past ten when he starts hearing noises. There’s a ruckus of old furniture banging the wall, coughing, and then stumbled steps towards the bathroom. Worick doesn’t move. This isn’t new and as long as it doesn’t go on for longer than usual Worick will not intervene, as per the other’s request. After five or so minutes, Nicolas emerges. He waddles out of the room, sniffling, scrunching the scraggy vest he has on with his hand and wiping his mouth with it. Some dried blood sticks to the fabric. He sits down at the table with Worick and when he has Nic in front of him like this, disheveled bedhead and eyes squinting disoriented with the morning light, he doesn’t look a day over fourteen.

“Morning.” Worick says, and smiles. Nicolas looks back at him and then drags his gaze to the radio. The antenna is up again.

 _Who is it?_ He signals.

“Billie Holiday.”

Nicolas frowns lightly, not recognising the name.

“She sings jazz.” Worick says. He takes a drag and pushes his cup of coffee across the table. Nicolas grabs it, taking a sip. Worick looks out the window and Nicolas follows his gaze unconsciously but it’s lost somewhere over the rooftops, out in the horizon. Nicolas can’t pinpoint exactly where. He knocks with his knuckles on the table and Worick turns to look at him again.

_What’s she sound like?_

Worick takes a minute to find a description. He gives Nicolas a small smile then lifts his right arm to signal.

_Sad._


	2. Chapter 2

Business picks up in the next five years. People seem to want to get even at each other a lot more and for the Handymen this means easy money. Worick has plenty of opportunities to perfect his gun skills. The first time he kills somebody he pukes, blood and cold sweat staining his shirt as he clings to the wall of some alleyway. The nightmares increase and Nicolas notices because when he wakes up in the morning the other is already on his third cup of coffee. A week after that first time, however, something in him clicks. Worick pulls the trigger without a second thought now, it’s automatic. He dislikes it though, the gun, and Nicolas can tell. When he cleans it or oils it he does it like it’s a chore, he doesn’t respect it. Nicolas can’t blame him, after all he dislikes mechanical weapons just as much - but he finds it interesting. His sword is all Nic has ever had that’s tangible, the only thing besides Worick that has allowed for continuity in his life - so he clings to it. Worick on the other hand rejects the gun. It’s a burden for him, it’s guilt.

They are now twenty nine.

One morning of November Nicolas wakes up early because there’s a sharp pain in his chest and it won’t let him go back to sleep. He fixes some breakfast and brews coffee, sits down at the table next to the window and waits for it to pass. After twenty or so minutes Worick emerges. He’s smiling wide even though it’s seven in the morning and Nicolas has no idea what could possibly make him want to smile like that. Their room heater isn't working, it’s freezing cold and taking a shower is gonna be one hell of an ordeal.

 _Hey_. Worick signals and Nicolas appreciates it. He’s not all there this early in the morning and focusing to read lips is the last thing he wants to do. _Why up so early, birthday boy?_

Nicolas squints, following Worick with his eyes as he grabs a cup and pours himself coffee before he sits across from him at the table.

 _November 10th_. Worick signals, and he’s grinning. It’s not until Nicolas repeats the date a couple times in his head that it dawns on him. When they’d just met, when they were little, one afternoon Worick had tried to squeeze out as much information about him as Nicolas could remember. It was more frustrating than informative though because Nicolas was given absolutely nothing beyond a full name and his tag. He had no birthdate so Worick had decided to give him a new one. Nicolas saw no use for this, even now he still considered a triviality beyond having some useful way to calculate his age and the time he had left. But Worick had always made it an event, every year, in some way or another.

 _Forgot it was today_. Nicolas signals. Worick’s brow furrows slightly and clicks his tongue. He goes to steal something from Nic’s plate and the other smacks his hand away. Worick chuckles and then turns to the window, gaze on the horizon again. Nic follows his gesture and can’t stop his curiosity this time. He taps on the other’s arm and Worick looks back at him.

 _What is it that you always look at_. He signals.

“The bells.” Worick says. Nicolas looks confused. “The Cathedral, the bells ring every hour. I’m not looking at anything, I’m listening.”

Nicolas keeps his eyes on Worick’s lips but nothing else follows. He lowers his gaze and notices he has a rosary around his neck, hiding between the folds of an old white shirt.

 _You believe?_ Nicolas signals, gaze up at the other’s face again. Worick snorts.

“No.” Worick says. “It’s all fear mongering, it bores me.”

_That’s only the God of the people._

Nicolas looks away when he’s done with signalling the sentence. He looks down into his cup of coffee, holds it with both hands, and becomes immersed in himself in a way that Worick has never seen before. Nicolas hates that God as well, the one that’s unforgiving. But the compassionate one, that one he likes. Having death at his doorstep all his life has made Nic believe, If not in God at least in _something_. This has let him harbour hope that maybe him and his kind are not as condemned as people say, that maybe they too can meet the angels. Its a silly little thought, a childish wish, but it helps him sleep at night.

Worick picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip, taking notice of Nic’s gaze moving up again. He follows it and finds himself staring down at the rosary. Worick looks up at the other, smiling smally to hide his alarmed reaction to the other spotting it. “This? Big Mama gave it to me.”

 _You never wore it before_. Nicolas signals, and Worick’s eyes narrow because this smart motherfucker always ends up pushing him up against the ropes. _Why now._

“Man, I’m starving.” Worick says. He stands up to make himself breakfast and to avoid the conversation. Luckily Nic doesn’t push the issue but Worick’s certain he suspects something. There are no more words for each other throughout the morning. Worick eats, showers, gets dressed and leaves. Nicolas waits. By the window, on the stairs. He moves around the house, more restless than usual.

When he feels brave enough Nicolas attempts a cold winter shower and regrets it immediately, not knowing how Worick managed to endure it earlier in the morning. He feels his teeth chatter as he walks to his room for a change of clothes, towel around his hips. Nicolas opens the door and spots a folded shirt on top of the sheets. He approaches the bed and touches it. Its crisp white and it feels new, the buttons are shiny. Above the front pocket there’s an embroidered N and inside of it there’s a small card. He takes it out and reads it. The note is in cursive posh boy handwriting and Nicolas smiles. As he stands there, holding the card in his hand, something dawns on him. He’s thirty now, Twilight life expectancy is thirty five. Suddenly the rosary makes sense, the bells. Nicolas knows his thinking is far fetched but maybe on that night only Worick put his pride aside and prayed for him to see another day.

\---

As much as Worick had initially joked about them being chased by the police it turns out they end up being chased by them, but for different reasons. District seven is no joke when it comes to gang violence and that has driven most of the force to transfer to quieter parts of the city. Nobody wants to get their hands dirty so more often than not they end up being employed on the downlow by the police to clean up messes and dispose of bodies. There’s also the occasional killing. When they’re called up on a Wednesday afternoon Worick assumes its gonna be something along the lines of the former, not the latter. He’ll get Chad asking them to go take out the trash at a certain warehouse where the incidental leftovers of a shootout await. Instead, who he gets at the other end of the line is Cody. As always, he’s a stuttering mess.

“We need you- we need backup-” He says, stumbling over his words. There’s the sound of fluttering paper at the other end of the line. Worick can also hear the phone lines of the station going crazy and he wonders; Is it possible that Atkins left the kid there by himself? “We sent our best men and even then- Chad’s there-”

“Slow down.” Worick says, leaning with one shoulder on the wall and holding the phone close to his ear. Nicolas looks at him, sat down on one of the chairs next to the table, waiting for instructions.

“There’s been squabbles between two groups, they’d been fighting over dominance of districts south of Termini. Last night they started crossfire and it went on until this morning!”

“What do you need us for?”

“After wiping down some of its top rankers the two groups merged and now we’ve got an even bigger problem. There’s twenty of them! Twenty tagged!”

Worick’s lips part and Nicolas leans forward, focused, but no words come out.

“Worick? You there?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“We sent all men left on duty to try and restrain them but to avoid a bloodbath Chad ordered them to pull back. They’re entrenched inside Santa Maria and they won’t negotiate. We’re desperate!”

 _What is it_. Nicolas signals. Worick lifts a hand to indicate him to wait.

“We’ll be there.” Worick says, then hangs up. He huffs and moves his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, closing his eye momentarily. When he blinks it open Nicolas is still waiting, sat on the chair, hands on his knees. “We’ve got work to do.” Worick says, and by the way his lips curl on the words and his expression Nicolas knows exactly what kind of work it is.

 _I’m ready_. Nicolas signals, a wild grin on his face. Worick can see the muscles on his arms tensing, he’s excited. From the corner of his eye Worick spots Theo’s brown paper bag scrunched up on the side of the table. Inside it there were fifteen dosages, intended to last two weeks. When Nicolas got a hold of them they didn’t make it past twenty eight hours.

“We’re going.” Worick says. He straps the gun holster to his belt and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. He walks out the door and Nicolas follows him, sword in his hand.

They get to Termini and walk down south towards the Church. The Piazza looks like a battlefield, bullets and bandages scattered everywhere. A dozen police cars surround the square in a perimeter but it’s dead quiet. When Chad sees them approach the scene he dismisses a medic that was patching him up and walks over to brief them.

“They got you involved?” Worick whistles at the wounds, looking at him up and down. “Must be some next level punks to get your ass off the desk.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, you’re late.” He says, tilting his head to look behind Worick and spotting the other. Chad rolls his jaw like he’s chewing a wad of gum and just stands there, squinting, examining Nicolas. Then he brings his eyes back to Worick. “Is he stable? I can’t have anymore collateral.”

“You want him stable or you want him to bring you their heads?” Worick says, one eyebrow raised. “This ain’t even our job to do, stuff like this is Gina’s business. You’re just using us as replacement so you don’t have to deal with her so don’t start making demands now. Be glad we even showed up to this shitshow.”

Chad’s mouth is in a snarl and he clicks his tongue. Nicolas observes quietly, standing behind Worick. He can smell violence in the air and he feels a tingle run down his spine and through his body, all the way to his fingertips. He grows jittery and his hand curls tighter around the handle of the sword and Worick seems to sense it, shooting him a glance over his shoulder. Nic’s grip softens, relaxing, and he waits.

“We wanted them alive initially. They’d be able to give us information about the groups in the sector but now I don’t give a damn how you bring them to me, they took half my men. He can go berserk for all I care. Just don’t die.”

Worick’s lips part like they’d done in his phone call with Cody but no words come out. Chad swats him on the arm as he walks away and Worick stands there, arms to his sides and fists clenched tight. Nicolas moves to see his face and before Worick can turn away he sees him biting down on his bottom lip so hard the skin around it tightens and shines red.

“Let’s go.” He says, and tugs on the crook of Nic’s elbow. Worick walks towards the Church and Nicolas follows him. There’s smoke coming up from a hole on the rooftop of the Duomo and before they walk in through the grand doors Nicolas taps Worick on the arm. Worick turns to him and his expression is no longer strained, no worry registered in his features. He’s on automatic, as Nic likes to call it.

 _Alive or dead?_ Nicolas signals. He hadn’t been briefed on the job and didn’t really need to but this part always called for confirmation.

“Dead.” Worick says, deadpan. “Slaughtered. Chad’s request.”

Nicolas grins, pushing against the handle of the sword with his thumb to get it to slide off from its case. Worick pushes the door and it won’t yield so he kicks it and the sound of it reverberates throughout the temple. Inside, twenty tagged gather around an open fire on the main altar. None of them turns at the noise and it’s at that moment that Worick’s face falls the same way it did when he spoke to Chad. _Of course they couldn’t get them to negotiate_ , he thinks, _they can’t hear a thing_. Nicolas advances without second thought, not catching that detail, and starts attacking as soon as the others grow aware of his presence.

“Nic, wait-” Worick speaks and then swallows his words, groaning, realizing there’s no way he can stop the other now no matter what. He watches him clear seven of them fairly easily and assumes that despite the number they must be of low rank. They don’t seem to have any weapons, either that or they ran out of bullets. All of them fight with their bare hands and none of them are speaking, not even when they’re wounded. The pained groans are barely audible and it makes Worick uneasy and he wonders how it must be like for Nicolas to experience this in every fight. This eerie silence, almost like death is already in the room collecting souls.

“Worrickk” He hears, lifting his head. Nicolas warns him and Worick feels immediate guilt for allowing himself to space out in this circumstances. One of the tagged approaches him and he shoots, without hesitation. He clears the path for Nicolas, letting him to what he does best, and stays on his toes because they’re all rather small so its easy for them to sneak up on him without being noticed. Worick’s blind spot is small and he’s managed to make the area smaller over the years, making up for it by sharpening his other senses, but it’s still there. One of the Twilights makes use of it but instead of going for him he goes for Nicolas, a sharpened piece of wood in his hand. Its too late when he’s in Worick’s field of vision again and he can only yell out in warning, but of course its futile.

The tagged stabs Nicolas on his thigh and Worick shoots him. He falls to the ground and Worick looks past him, to Nicolas, who stands still and doesn’t flinch at the piece of wood digging inside his flesh. Worick clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding. He knew this would happen. Between him and Nicolas they’ve cleared up to seventeen and the three left have scattered, hiding somewhere between the benches and altarpieces. Worick approaches Nicolas slowly, grabs a hold of his shoulder in a way that indicates its him so he won’t overreact.

“Nic.” He says. The other’s not turning to him despite the touch and Worick realises he misunderestimated the extent of his overdose because he can’t even feel the hand on his shoulder. Nicolas stands with his back to Worick, blood on his clothes and grip tight on his sword. His breathing is erratic and soon enough he begins to heave, his knees buckling slightly. Worick moves his hand and slides it down his arm, reaching for the one gripping the sword, and leaves it there until the other’s grip relaxes.

“Ddeeaff.” Nicolas says. Worick moves so he’s facing him, looking at him in the eye. “Theyy’re ddeeaff.”

“Yes.” Worick says. He watches as Nic moves his hand down to his wound and grabs at the shard of wood, pulling on it. “Christ, Nic- don’t- ” He says, arm reaching for the other’s hand, but Nic doesn’t stop. “Stop. Stop! You need a doctor!”

There’s copious blood when Nic pulls it out completely but he doesn’t even bat an eyelash, much less wince at the pain. He looks up at Worick and notices he’s pale, paler than usual. Like he just saw a ghost.

“Stop.” Worick says, lips mouthing the word so slowly for a moment it looks to Nic like they tremble. The sense of pain is slowly coming back to him in waves. The first two hit him with the force of a typhoon and then his vision blurs, not catching Worick’s next sentence. Nicolas feels his heart throbbing, pumping blood to the wound. His knees finally give and he falls to the floor. He’s unconscious for the next six hours. Worick carries him outside with one of his arms perched on his back, Nic’s feet dragging on the floor and leaving a red trail from the altar to the square. When Worick’s made sure Nic’s in good care, at the medic’s set-up tent, he goes back inside. Worick hunts down the three snakes that were in hiding and empties all his bullets on them. He shoots from such a small distance blood splatters on himself and on statues, painting the face of a Madonna. Worick leaves them there, flesh rotting on the Church floor, not looking back as he walks out the front gates into the Piazza. The rosary still hangs from his neck.

\---

When Nicolas wakes up he’s in his bed. His thigh is bandaged and he assumes he’s stitched up too because the skin around the wound feels tight. He tries to move his leg and winces, eyes closing momentarily. Breathing in and out slowly he sits up on the bed, pushing himself forward until his feet touch the floor, then stands up. He walks to the kitchen and finds Worick standing by the window, his back to him as he smokes. Nicolas tries to move as quietly as possible but the hardwood floor creaks under his feet and without him knowing his presence in the room is revealed to the other.

“What the fuck are you doing up.” Worick says, having turned around and spotted him. The other is still trying to walk towards the stove, oblivious that the wood creaking under his weight blew his cover. Worick groans and leaves the cigarette on the ashtray, walking towards him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Nicolas looks back at him and huffs frustrated, like a kid who just got caught trying to sneak out of the house. “Get your ass back in bed now.”

“S’ffinne.” Nicolas says. “Justt limmppingg.”

“You got stabbed five inches away from your aorta, get back to bed.”

_Did Theo teach you that fancy word._

Worick swats him on the arm hard and Nicolas chuckles, wobbling a little. Worick wants to kill him but he’s smiling. He’s happy the other is well enough to be able to joke around.

“Sit down.” Worick says. “If you’re hungry I’ll make you something.”

_I don’t wanna get poisoned._

“Sit down, you jackass.” Worick laughs. He reaches for the cigarette resting on the ashtray and takes a drag before he puts it back down again. Worick fixes some breakfast for the both of them and they eat sitting at the table by the window, like always. Nicolas is chewing on toast, his eyes drifting out the window. He wonders whether the bells are ringing again.

 _Worick_. Nicolas signals, turning to look back at the other. Worick looks up from his plate when he sees the other move his hands. _You hesitated. When we’re given free reign in a wipeout usually you’re the first one to start. Why?_

Worick looks back at the other. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even know where to start. He didn’t think the other would have the clarity of mind to notice something like that at the scene nor did he think it was possible for him to retain such a small detail in his mind. But he’s done it again, Nicolas sees right through him and this time Worick has  _nothing_. No prepared lies or tricks up his sleeve, he's exposed.

“I don’t know, Nic.” He mutters, then hides behind his cup of coffee.

_Because they were like me?_

“I told you I don’t fucking know.” Worick says, and he hisses. His shoulders are tensed and he grips the cup with two hands, fingertips pressing against the hot ceramic hoping the burning sensation makes his thoughts go elsewhere.

 _I won’t have a meaningful death, I’ll die like them._ Nicolas signals. He’s looking at Worick straight on, no room for doubt in his eyes. _You should know this already, you should make your peace with it._

“Stop.”

_I don’t care if I die like a dog and you shouldn’t care either._

“Stop!” Worick stands up, hands slammed down on the table. The cup breaks and coffee spills on the table and onto the floor. Worick stares back at him and Nicolas notices his exposed eye is bloodshot, a dark shadow colouring the tender skin beneath it. Worick hadn’t slept. The way he’s looking at him indicates to Nicolas that he’d finished the job at the Church. Worick did what he had to do and now he just wanted to eat in peace, the nightmares had already worked him to the bone as punishment. He’d had enough. Nicolas feels a punch to his gut and his chest tightens but he knows he must do this. He’s dying and if he doesn’t do something his friend will get killed by guilt too.

 _You’re not the one killing me._ He signals, and watches Worick’s gaze soften - his arms bending slightly as he relaxes his grip on the edge of the table. _I  don't care how I die. I care about living. I want to live so I try to not think of death. If you think of death all the time you won’t be able to function. Don’t torture yourself like that._

Silence grows between them and Worick sits back down. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, glancing down at the mess then up and out the window. Nicolas taps the back of his hand and Worick turns to him, his gaze tired and spent. But then Nicolas holds his hand and the glimmer in Worick’s eye returns.

 _Please_. Nicolas signals with his free hand. His expression is pained, tense, as close as he can get to desperate. Something flutters in Worick’s chest when he feels how Nic’s hand gently curls around his fingers till they’re locked, something familiar and warm.


	3. Chapter 3

In the early morning of a Sunday Nicolas starts to cough. There’s a lot of blood and the action is a lot a rougher on his throat than usual so Nicolas can only assume he’s louder, too. He gets dressed and stumbles down the stairs to leave the house, not wanting to awake Worick, grabbing only his sword and the keys on his way out. After ten minutes of dragging his feet he loses his balance, hitting the brick wall of an alleyway with his left side - clinging with his hand onto the outdoor pipelines. Its six in the morning and the sun is only just starting to rise and the streets are empty. Nicolas heaves, his vision getting blurry but still managing to catch a glimpse of clergymen making their way to the Cathedral. The usher has the keys dangling from his belt and in his feverish delirium Nicolas reaches out for them, but his reach exceeds his grasp. He collapses to the ground not long after that.

When he opens his eyes again a young girl stands looking over him. Her face is dirty and she’s got no shoes on her feet but Nicolas sees feathered wings on her back. He know he’s hallucinating but doesn’t pay it mind because what a beautiful side effect this is. Her hair is black and her skin is caramel and Nicolas smiles because he knew not all angels would be porcelain white, he knew they’d reflect whatever God put here on Earth. The girl is speaking but Nicolas doesn’t have the strength left in him to focus on her lips and he lets himself drift off again. After some time he feels hands on him, someone shakes him awake. He opens his eyes and sees two priests. They must have moved him from the street and sat him up with his back to the wall. The girl is gone.

“Can you walk?” One of them speaks. Nicolas narrows his eyes trying to concentrate on his lips but his head throbs and he can barely make out what they’re saying. He distinguishes the words doctor and clinic and he shakes his head. “But you need to be seen by someone-”

“Nnno mmonney.” Nicolas rasps out and his eyelids feel heavy again. He’s tired and he wants to sleep. The last thought that crosses his mind before he closes his eyes is that he didn’t lock the door when he left the house.“Ggrannny Jooel.” He says, then sleeps.

Nicolas wakes up and expects to be in a bed but he’s sat on a chair, in front of a table. The first thing he gets is a smack at the back of the head. Nicolas grumbles and looks up, Granny Joel stands next to him - her face scrunched up in anger. They’d occasionally worked for her, making sure her shop and the area remained free of troublemakers.

“Eat, you moron.” She says, leaving a plate on the table. The second thing Nicolas gets is a hot meal and the third is a scolding. “You got a lotta nerve giving my name out as emergency contact. This ain’t a hospital, I got a business to run.”

Nicolas is disoriented and confused, but he eats. Granny Joel watches him, her grip tight around her cane. When Nicolas is finished he stands up and Granny Joel smacks the cane on top of the table so fast Nicolas almost gets startled. Then he wonders whether she even needs a cane at all given how fast she’s moving.

“Don’t you even think about it.” She says. Nicolas sits back down again, no questions asked.”I called up the other useless dog, he’s coming over. You stay put.”

“Whatt aboutt bbusi..nesss?” Nicolas says

“You really wanna get wise on me, boy?” She says, waving the cane in the air before putting it back down until the tip of it makes contact with the ground again. Nicolas sits there, in silence, eyes scanning the room. He spots his sword leant up against the wall. Then he feels a tap on his shoulder and brings his eyes back to Granny Joel. “You’re dying, aren’t you.” She says. “You’re all dying.”

Nicolas blinks, processing her words, then lowers his head. His eyes narrow and his chest feels tight and he doesn’t understand. Nicolas has known he’ll die young since he was born and yet now, all of a sudden, finds himself selfishly wishing for more time. Not even for a pleasant or comfortable life, or justice, or vengeance. Just more time. More time with him.

Fifteen minutes pass and then Worick shows up. He has a brief conversation with Granny Joel and thanks her. He doesn’t even look at Nicolas, just gestures him to get up from the chair and walk if he feels that he can. They go back to the house in silence, Worick walking ahead and Nicolas behind him with the sword in his hands. When they walk into the room Worick turns around to look at him for the first time.

“Shut the door.” He says. Nicolas does, leaving the sword to rest leant on the wall next to it, and looks up at the other.“No money, huh?” Worick says, tapping the ash off the cigarette he’d been smoking on their walk back and letting it fall to the floor. “Then tell me what the fuck this is for.” He continues, taking out wrinkled bills out his pocket. Worick holds the money in his hand then scrunches it under his grasp, his fist closing tight.

“Its for food. For this place, for health. Use it.” He says, and he wants to sound angry but he sounds desperate instead. Worick throws the money on the table. “Use it!” He yells, then walks off. Worick kicks chairs and curses and hits the wall and Nicolas can’t hear a thing but he’s smart enough to know the other wasn’t happy with his decision. Even though he knows it's unwise to do so he follows Worick to his room. When he comes in Worick is sat on the bed, head in his hands. Two chairs are on the floor and one of them is broken. The burnt out cigar is squashed under his left foot. Nicolas leans against the door to shut it and he’s so quiet that it's only the click of the door closing that makes Worick look up, not his presence. “Leave.” He says. Nicolas stays where he is. Worick stands up. “Leave!”

Nicolas walks up to Worick. He doesn’t do anything, just stands there by his side - like he’s always done. Its at that point that Worick crumbles and it’s so subtle but Nicolas has developed an eye for detail. Worick’s jaw is clenched tight and his mouth twitches like he wants to speak but he cannot. He averts his gaze, off to the window, and once again locks it on something far away.

Worick knows this is fucked up. He doesn’t worry about him like a friend anymore, this is something else now. When he got the call from Granny Joel he felt his soul leave his body, he was petrified in fear until he was given all the information. And when he saw him there, alive and safe, he wanted to murder him but at the same time hold him close and promise to never leave his side. The way he wants him is fucked up and all he’ll ever do is suffer from that point on if he lets this grow. He needs to destroy it, kill it at its root. He needs to bury it deep within him and not let it see the light of day.

“Worrickk.” Nicolas says. When Worick looks back at him Nicolas clears his throat, aims to make himself sound better. He hopes he does when he next speaks. “Wallace.”

When Worick hears that he knows he can’t get rid of the feeling, no matter how hard he tries. The seed is planted now and he doesn’t care know how fucked up it is, he wants it.

Worick clears the distance between them and he’s kissing him. Hurriedly, messily, teeth getting in the way. His hands shake keeping a hold of the other’s collar and Nicolas holds him, arms around his waist. He has his eyes on Worick’s lips and watches them shake as he curses between breaths. Nicolas moves a hand and brushes at the corner of Worick’s mouth with his thumb, prying it open, and he can see the others lips whisper a _fuck_ before he parts them and lets him in. Worick’s mouth is all cheap lipstick and nicotine and Nicolas wants for nothing but to keep tasting him.

“Get it off.” Worick says, tugging on the other’s bloodstained vest. Nicolas is on his jaw and doesn’t see him speak. He’s nipping and kissing with a lazy mouth and Worick knows he’s done for because he realises he wants this now and he wants it more than just once. He wants the whole thing and he can’t have it, not for as long as he’d wish. But he has this moment, he thinks. He has the present. _Make it count_.

Worick takes off Nic’s shirt, tugging it over his head and letting it land somewhere on the hardwood floor. His hands are pressed down on his skin and move across the others chest. Nicolas is small but solid like a fucking brick and Worick feels his cock twitch in his pants, fully hard. Nicolas is taking an awful long time to unbutton his shirt and it’s driving him crazy.

“Just rip it off. Damn it, Nic.” He says. Nicolas watches his lips and looks up at him, brow furrowing.

“Exxpppenn...ssive.” He says. Worick snorts, hands lowering to grab the other’s ass over his jeans.

“Fuck it.” He whispers, a smirk on his face. Nic’s eyes go wide and Worick doesn’t have to say it twice. The buttons fly off and Worick chuckles, sliding his hand back to the front and palming the other’s cock over the fabric. Nicolas grunts. “You’re only half-mast, I knew I should’ve put some makeup on.” He says, grinning, and watches amused as Nicolas rolls his eyes. Worick kisses him chastly, teasing, keeping his lips open and watching the other’s eyelashes move as he keeps his eyes on them. Nic’s breath is sharp, face flushed hot, gaze clinging to Worick’s lips and waiting for something, _anything_. He’s desperate and Worick revels on seeing him this vulnerable. “Want me to suck you off?”

Nicolas takes a minute to process. He looks up at the other, lifting a hand to signal.

_Have you ever?_

Worick raises an eyebrow and stares back at him like he just said something that’s adorably endearing but also profoundly stupid.

“Honey.” He says, monotone. Nicolas understands immediately and just as immediately he feels embarrassed for having asked such a question. Worick snorts at the expression, kissing the corner of his mouth. Nicolas feels his hands on his belt and then sliding down the warm skin below his navel and he shivers. Worick smiles. He pushes Nicolas to lean back on the wall and kneels before him, tugging down the other’s jeans. With lips parted he mouths over the other’s underwear, tongue laying flat and trailing the outline of his cock over the fabric. Nicolas groans and throws his head back until it meets the wall, his gut swirling pleasantly. Hearing the other makes Worick’s cock leak in his pants and he feels it pulsing - already on edge. He’s a mess and this is embarrassing for someone who’s supposed to be a professional. His knees buckle and he curses, having to support himself with a hand on the ground momentarily. Nicolas doesn’t miss a blink of this little hiccup of his, he retains it in his mind.

Worick gets rid of his briefs and holds him in his hand. He’s big, at least bigger than Worick ever expected him to be. He hears the other moan when he strokes him a couple times and can’t contain a smile because Nicolas is trembling and he hasn’t even started.

“Been a long time?” He says, and waits until the other looks down to repeat the question. Nicolas lifts a hand, making sure he grips the wall with the other and doesn’t lose his balance.

_A while._

Worick feels a smug sense of self satisfaction at his response. His selfish desire to have him to himself makes him be glad there haven’t been any others for quite some time. He grins before he parts his lips to tongue at the length of the shaft slowly, letting it sit on the curve of his mouth when he reaches the tip. Nicolas looks down at him through dark streaks of hair, fringe covering his forehead and moving with the blow of his breaths. His eyes are hungry and make Worick want to put on a show even more. He swallows him down, fully, the back of his throat relaxed. He starts moving and doesn’t flinch when Nicolas snaps his hips in desperation. Worick’s mouth is hot and what he does with his tongue whenever he lets him slip out of his mouth makes Nicolas want to dig his nails into the concrete wall. Worick wans to see that, he wants him wild and losing it but instead Nicolas is collected and immovable. His right hand lays flat against the wall and his left is at the back of Worick’s neck. No pressure, no movement.

“Just do something, _Christ_ -” Worick mouths, looking up at the other. He tongues the slit and takes distance, letting the thread of spit hang on his lips - lewd and filthy. Worick’s ready to pull out all the stops necessary to get the other to loosen up. He feels cheap and greedy and he’s loving it because this isn’t work - this is fun. Through the corner of his eye he spots Nicolas looking down at him. He pushes his chin forward, shaking the fringe out of his face - light hitting his eyes. Worick smiles pleased that at least he’s got his attention and swallows him down again. Thats when Nicolas responds. His left hand slides up Worick’s throat and his thumb presses down on his adam’s apple. Worick chokes and has to pull away to breathe because that got him so close to coming he _knows_ he has to do something to get himself together if he’s to last the night.

“Ggoood?” He hears above him, looking up. Nicolas is smiling, left hand still around his neck.

“Yeah.” Worick says, voice strained but wanting. “God, yes-”

Nicolas moves his hand and it interrupts Worick’s train of thought. He slides a finger under the beaded thread of the rosary, knuckles brushing on Worick's collarbone. He holds it and only lets it fall on Worick's chest when he moves his hand upwards and drags his thumb over his bottom lip, spit sticking to his fingertip. Nicolas stakes it to his mouth and licks it clean and Worick is so fucking horny he’s _this_ close to just rutting against the other’s shoe like a dog. Worick knows he’s not above that and that's what makes it a bigger threat. He’s not above begging either but he’d rather not do that just yet, the night is young.

“Fuck me.” Worick says. Nicolas grins because Worick’s not asking - he’s commanding.

Nicolas does as he’s told and moves to the bed. He sits down and lets Worick straddle him after he’s made quick work of the rest of his clothes. Worick’s on his lap, fully naked. Nicolas is pissed off that Worick still looms tall over him even in this position but he’s also staring. He hadn’t seen the other this exposed in years and all he remembered was a fourteen year old boy just as skinny as he was. But now Worick is muscular, firm. His legs stretch long and have Nicolas feeling something other than just bitterness for giving him his height. His hands stay on the others thighs, fingertips pressing down on the pale skin.

“You like these?” Worick says, catching Nic’s gesture. “Now imagine the car wreck if I went out in a skirt.” He smirks and Nicolas puts his hands away immediately. Worick chuckles because the other has been nothing but shy about these things since he’s known him and apparently, despite the earlier stunt, it has stayed that way. Worick cups the other’s face and leans down, kissing him again. Nicolas sighs into his mouth, arms wrapped around him, and it’s these little but profound showings of affection which shake Worick to the core.

“You ever done it with a man?” Worick asks when they part, their foreheads pressed together. Nicolas shakes his head. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Nicolas follows direction well, a little too well. After he’s told to reach into Worick’s bedside table drawer for some lube he doesn’t take long to understand what he’s to do. He’s still got Worick on his lap but he doesn’t stand tall looming over him anymore. He curls in on himself, nails digging into the other’s shoulders with his hips lifted and legs spread - knees pushed down against the mattress. Nicolas opens him slow and deep with two thick fingers and Worick is losing his goddamn mind.

“Fuck, Nic- ah-” He breathes, trailing off into a moan that the other doesn’t hear. But the muscles in his legs jump and he tenses and Nicolas can feel that. He can see the skin over his throat straining when he throws his head back, the sweat glistening. Nicolas lifts his head up to mouth at the other’s chest, feeling the hot skin under his lips. He closes his eyes because all of Worick smells like strong cologne and it makes his head spin. He reaches further inside him, pressing against the walls, trying to imagine the noises the other is making.

“Enough- enough, please-” Worick heaves, shaking as he tries to keep himself up - holding onto the others shoulders for dear life. He pats on his back urgently to let him know he’s speaking when the other doesn’t react to his plea. Worick feels full and the tightness in his gut is warning him and the friction of his cock rubbing against the other’s chest is going to kill him. “Shit, Nicolas-”

Nicolas stops, sliding his fingers out of him and Worick almost cries out when he’s empty but the other gives him little time to react. Worick hears the unwrapping of the condom and then the others’ hand is on his right thigh and beckoning him to sit back down. Worick follows his touch but reaches back for him, holding the other’s cock as he slides down on it then letting go to grip at the back of his head - holding the short black hair in his fist. Nicolas closes his eyes because Worick is pulling on it and he smiles because he knows it has nothing to do with him hurting. This is about control.

“Look at me.” Worick says against his lips. Nicolas opens his eyes when he feels them move against his own, looking back at him in a daze. He groans pleasantly when the other pulls on his hair again. Worick is tight and hot around him and it feels so good it’s maddening. When Worick starts moving he’s slow, careful to not put pressure on his healing wound as he comes down. He keeps it slow until Nicolas makes a noise from deep down his throat that makes Worick shiver and start moving _fast_. Nicolas lets him move and call the shots until something in him snaps and he grips his hips and starts fucking into him in such a way that forces Worick to release the grip on his hair so he can claw at his back instead.

“Fuck.” He rasps, legs trembling. Nicolas is out of it, breathing sharp and ragged, hips pistoning like he means to make it impossible for Worick to be able to stand up straight tomorrow. He’s in deep and Worick’s mind is clouding, nails digging into the tattoo - his own ink distorting in the folds of skin when he arches his back. “Fuck, I’m close-”

When Nicolas feels the scratches on his back he looks up. Worick has his eyes closed, his head thrown back. Nicolas can’t read his lips but he feels him tense around him, small spasms making his knees jerk, and he knows. He reaches for the other’s cock, hand in a fist around it, and strokes him until the other comes. Worick spills over his hand, his voice breaking into shallow breaths as his whole body shakes. Nicolas kisses him with an open mouth on his neck, tasting the salty skin there. He rolls his hips slow to let Worick catch his breath but soon they snap fast again and when he can feel it coming he grows weary of how he will sound when it happens but it’s imminent now and there’s nothing he can do. Nicolas comes and his voice is quiet. A low hum and a breathy, elongated exhale. Worick strokes the other’s hair, kissing his temple, murmuring something that gets lost in the air of the room for Nicolas. He locks his arms around his neck and his fingers stroke carefully over the reddened skin of the other’s back, lining the scratches of his own doing in a silent apology.

Worick cleans himself more out of habit than anything, discarding the condom and wiping down the mess. Before he can drag Nic to the shower the other is already sleeping like a log so it looks like he’ll clean up tomorrow. Worick snorts at the sight then pushes the other lightly to make room on the bed, chuckling when Nicolas grumbles uncomfortable at first but then curls up around him. Worick tugs the eyepatch off and leaves it on the bedside table. He accommodates next to the other, watching him breathe in and out slowly. After five minutes, he sleeps.

\---

At nine thirty the following morning Worick wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing. He knows it’s probably business for him alone, not for the both of them, so he ignores it. After five rings the person on the other end of the line gives up. Worick attempts to roll over to lay on his back but quickly finds out he can’t. He looks down and finds Nic with both his arms around him, in a tight hold over his waist. Nic’s forehead is pressed to his chest and he sleeps silently, his expression peaceful until Worick attempts to move and then his brow furrows. Worick smiles. He reaches out to the bedside table and grabs his eyepatch, putting it on. Then he moves back, tapping the other on the shoulder.

“Hey.” Worick says, and it’s odd because even though he knows Nicolas can’t possibly be bothered by the sound of his voice he still finds himself whispering. Nicolas doesn’t respond, naturally, but he shifts a little in his position when Worick runs a hand through his hair - cupping the back of his neck.

“Mmh.” He complains, pressing his face against Worick’s chest further like he wants to hide. But then he looks up, blinking his eyes awake, squinting at the morning light. Worick looks down at him with a smile on his face. He has the eyepatch on. Nicolas can feel a nice caress at the back of his neck, where the end of his spine meets the start of his hairline. The bed dips softly under their weights and for the first time Nicolas feels comfortable, he doesn’t miss the floor.

“Morning.” Worick says. Nicolas grunts in response and Worick laughs because the other isn’t really all there in the mornings until he’s had coffee. He sits up on the bed with the intention to stand up and walk to the kitchen. The other lets go of the hold on his waist but as soon as he sees him moving he grabs his arm. Worick looks back at him with an eyebrow raised. “Look, you either get cuddles or you get coffee. You can’t have it all, Nic.”

Nicolas frowns and his mouth is in a snarl and Worick holds back a chuckle but it tumbles out into laughter when the other tugs on his arm and pulls him back to bed. Worick cushions his fall on top of the other by keeping a hand flat on the mattress but then Nicolas wraps his right arm around him and makes him lay down on his chest.

“I ccaa..nnn.” He says. Worick’s still laughing and Nicolas watches him, taking in the little wrinkles at the side of his mouth - the way his skin pulls tight on his cheeks. He moves his left hand to reach out for his face and undoes the string tied together at the back of his head. The eyepatch falls, slipping down Worick’s face, and Nic realises he should’ve asked if he could do that beforehand. The other doesn’t seem to mind but Nicolas feels at fault. “Sssorry-”

“S’fine.” Worick says. He looks back at him, exposed, and doesn’t care because it’s Nic and because he’s seen him like this plenty of times. Nicolas moves his hand and caresses carefully over his left cheek, below the scar tissue. Worick smiles, pushing himself up and kissing him. Nicolas kisses back slowly, still waking up, hand sliding back down to rest on Worick’s hips. His skin is warm in the mornings and Worick hums pleasantly when he feels his hands on him. Nicolas feels the vibration against his lips and smiles. He moves his hands to his thighs.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Worick says, grinning. He takes a little distance so the other can read his lips. Nicolas aims to go down south further but he can’t reach beyond the other’s hips and when he realises he groans, head thrown back in frustration. Worick fights real hard to not break out in laughter. He still chuckles though, moving up slightly to make it easier for the other. Nicolas looks back down at him when he does. “Don’t worry about it, you’re still smooth.” He says, half a smile on his face as he lays with his chin resting on his arms - keeping them folded over the other’s chest. “You’re gonna need a stool if we ever do it up on the wall, though.” Nicolas frowns and Worick winks, laughing an ow when the other slaps his ass.

“Fffuckk offf.” He says. Worick laughs harder but then feels his breath hitch when the other’s left hand slides between his legs. The corner of his mouth curls up slightly and Worick waits, intrigued to see how the other will continue.

“And?” Worick says, voice in sing song. He has this peculiar smile when he does it and Nicolas has memorized it. Its mocking and playful but above all Nic finds it very, _very_ attractive.

Nicolas grabs at him, strong grip reddening the skin, then flattens his palm on his inner thigh. He puts pressure there, just enough to let Worick decide whether he wants to, but Worick was already game as soon as they started kissing. He spreads his legs, knees sliding down to the mattress - at either side of Nic’s body. When Nicolas reaches over to stroke over the tender skin Worick makes a noise. Nicolas sees him closing his eye and tensing, so he asks. “Ssore?”

“A little.” Worick says, sighing when the other continues and presses down with his fingertips. His hair falls like a curtain over his face again and Nicolas almost doesn’t make up what he says next, but he feels the other’s hardening cock push against his stomach and figures that what he can read on the other’s lips must be the truth. “Feels good- Don’t stop-”

Worick tries really hard to be quiet. He knows they’re already gonna get interrogated by the landlady about last night’s concert but it’s really fucking hard to stay quiet when one gets teased into oblivion and that’s exactly what Nic is doing to him. He takes way too long to reach out for the lube on the bedside table, spends a good five minutes just caressing him skin to skin and making Worick twitch and whine impatiently. When he slicks his fingers and starts to properly fuck him with them Worick is already too worked up to care about how he looks or what he sounds like. Nicolas doesn’t hear him complain wantonly but he still gets to confirm that what he’s doing is working when he kisses open mouthed over the others’ throat. There’s intermittent vibration and Nicolas feels it under his lips. When Worick throws his head back the skin there tightens and Nicolas wants to bite down on it but he restrains himself to just dragging his teeth.

“Shit, you’re good-” Worick breathes, straining to keep the top half of his body up with both hands flat on the mattress - at either side of Nic’s shoulders. Worick’s whole body aches at the emptiness with the first two fingers but on the third one he’s filled up again and he’s fucking pleased about it. He smiles like he finally got his way after all the teasing and Nicolas catches it. He hasn’t forgotten how Worick reacted when he had a hand around his neck. As much as Worick liked to lead he liked it much better when someone put him in his place and Nicolas was and is more than willing to give him just what he wants. He curls his fingers inside him and Worick curses as his legs shake. His arms give under his weight and his hands grip the sheets, forehead pressed against one of Nic’s shoulders as he gets his breath back.

“Yoou’re ttoo cockky-” Nicolas speaks close to his ear and Worick shivers. Nicolas slides his right hand between their stomachs and wraps it around both of them, stroking lazily.

“Nic- oh my _god_ -” Worick heaves, his voice shaking. His cock throbs at the friction, leaking over the other’s hand. Nic’s left hand doesn’t stop, three thick fingers fucking him deep and making Worick slowly lose it. He groans, hips snapping into the other’s hand like he knows nothing else. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , I’m gonna-”

Nicolas feels the other’s hand squeeze down on his shoulder and he turns his head. He kisses him, feeling the other moan into his mouth when his lips tremble. When Worick comes he stiffens, muscles on his legs twitching as he spills between their stomachs. Nicolas slides his fingers out of him, letting the other rest his bodyweight on him to recover. He feels heavy on top of him and just when Nic thought Worick was moving to roll over he moves down instead. Nicolas watches, eyes locked on the other, Worick smiling at him drowsily through streaks of hair as he moves lower. He holds him in his hand and Nicolas groans at the touch. Worick pulls his hair back and away from his face then starts to deliberately lap at the other’s cock in the most vulgar way possible.

“Come on, old man.” He says, giving enough distance between the words for Nicolas to catch all of them before his lips go back to work. Nicolas is close enough that he could come with just the image of the other lavishly mouthing on his cock like that but then Worick takes him in his mouth and Nicolas comes down his throat instead. Worick swallows, pulling back without spilling a drop. He kneels up on the bed, looking back at him with a proud smirk. Nicolas raises an eyebrow and nudges at his side with his knee, making Worick’s legs give again. Worick curses and stumbles and ends up falling flat down next to him on the bed.

“Cocckky.” Nicolas breathes out, smiling whilst watching the other shift uncomfortably. He’s trying to find a more dignified position than staying with his ass in the air and his face squashed against the pillow.

“With the amount of money this mouth has earned me? I’m allowed to be.” Worick says, grumbling as he tugs on the sheets and gets closer to the other. Nic’s smile widens when he does and Worick catches a glimpse of it through the corner of his eye, the tips of his ears burning hot. They stay like that and Worick’s eye closes momentarily, drifting off, until Nic taps him on the shoulder and Worick looks at the other.

 _Can’t sleep in. Its Monday. Someone might call_. Nicolas signals, his left hand up and his right on Worick’s back - arm wrapped around his waist.

“Fuck it.” Worick says, turning away from the other like a kid throwing a tantrum on the first day of school. Nicolas stays there, left hand still up in the air. He waits for the other to elaborate but after a while realises that’s as much as he’s going to get so he shrugs and gives into it. He slides his left hand between the sheets to hold the other with both arms around his body. In five years they’ve never taken a day off, they deserve it. _To hell with it_ , Nic thinks, exhaling in a huff as he buries his face in the crook of other’s shoulder. The smell of cologne still emanates from Worick’s neck and it carries him to sleep.

Worick’s still awake when Nicolas holds him and the way he does it is so loving Worick doesn’t feel like he deserves it. He says nothing and then there’s a brush of lips on his back, over the black ink, very soft and very quick before the other keeps still and there’s no more movement. Worick decides to stop questioning things. Whether he deserves it or not he has this moment, he has the present and he’s not gonna let anything besides what’s inevitable take it away. He’s not going to waste it in self-reflection or guilt, he’s going to live. They’re going to live. Worick sleeps and there are no nightmares, not this time.


	4. Chapter 4

A week after everything remains the same. They bicker and disagree over who owns which item of clothing in the same way they did before. Its just that now there’s less hiding and if their gaze or touch lingers on the other for longer than usual, they let it be. There’s also more lazy mornings and that’s always a plus. Two years go by.

On a Saturday Worick’s making breakfast. Nicolas observes him, sat on one of the kitchen chairs with an elbow on the table and a hand resting on his cheek. Worick looks immensely proud that he’s finally mastered the art of making an omelette without it turning into scrambled eggs after thirty two years. Thats another thing, they have Saturdays now. They can afford weekends, a luxury they’d never been able to enjoy before. If there was no work coming to them they’d go out and find it but now it’s no longer a necessity. The experiences they’d shared had made them develop a strong bond, they already complemented each other. But now all of this is enhanced and they fight better, they work better- and better services mean bigger profits. They’re not loaded but they live comfortably and that’s more than enough.

Worick’s lips are moving but he’s looking down at the pan so Nicolas figures he must be talking to himself. He snaps his fingers and thats when Nic’s gaze moves to the radio because he’s a little bit too enthusiastic to just be reciting the grocery list out loud. The antenna is up and Nicolas smiles because he realises the other is singing.

“Sssinnatt..ttra?” Nicolas speaks. Worick turns around and smiles wide - all teeth.

“How’d you know?”

Nicolas shrugs. _Don’t know._ He signals, taking advantage that the other has turned around and now faces him. _Bet you’re butchering it, though._

Worick frowns offended and Nicolas grins, signaling again.

_Is the song happy?_

Worick looks caught off guard by the question. He stares at Nicolas until he smells burning and then his eyes are on the stove again.

“Shit shit shit-” He curses, hurriedly turning the gas down and sighing relieved when he sees it’s not carbonized and still edible. Worick reaches for the the rosary around his neck and kisses the cross. Them he looks up at the ceiling with an I owe you one face and Nicolas snorts because he loves this ridiculous and theatrical idiot. Worick looks at him when he hears the noise. “What.”

_He’s got better things to do than saving your breakfast._

“ _Your_ breakfast.” Worick says, then turns back around to plate the food. When he leaves it on the table in front of him Nicolas wants to signal something but gets distracted by the way the other’s hand brushes through his hair and down his jaw. It lingers on his cheek and slides off his face slowly as Worick moves with the intention to sit on the windowsill but them Nicolas grabs his arm. Worick looks at him with a knowing smile and moves his hand back, lightly scratching at Nic’s two-day stubble. Nicolas closes his eyes momentarily and pulls him closer, left arm around his waist. Worick is standing and he looks down at Nic sat in the chair, grinning when the other opens his eyes and just waits and waits and waits - pitch black irises fixed on him. Worick leans down and brushes his lips against Nic’s teasingly, but there’s no kiss. “Eat.” He says, then pulls away.

Nicolas grunts and lets Worick go and Worick chuckles. He leans against the wall and takes out a smoke and a lighter from his shirt’s front pocket. The way Worick smokes when they’re alone has always been more ceremonious than whenever they’re with company and Nicolas loves to watch. Worick lights up, slowly blowing the smoke from the first drag out the window. Strands of hair fall from the ponytail grazing his neck and at that moment something in the air of the room makes Nicolas go back to their start. Worick had stopped taking customers for a while, Nicolas was certain he hadn’t let anyone touch him one or even two weeks after their first encounter.

 _They will talk_. Nic had signaled. _If they see you on the street and you’ve got bruises that they’re not their own, they will talk. About us._

Worick had been smoking next to the window, just as he was now, taking long drags and savouring it. He hadn’t responded right away and every movement seemed like a dance as he stood there thinking, his right hand moving to tap the ash off the cigar before drawing it back to his lips.

“I don’t give a damn what they say about us.” Worick had said, his response sticking in Nic's mind.

“Hey, still got the scar.” Worick says, bringing Nicolas back to the present. He sees Worick pointing at something and he follows it with his gaze, looking down at his own left thigh. Halfway up there’s a darkened patch where the shredded piece of wood once dug into his skin. Nicolas looks up and signals.

_Did we ever get paid for that?_

“I don’t know, actually. I don’t remember.” Worick chuckles, taking another drag. He knocks down with his knuckles on the table with his free hand, in front of Nic’s plate, to remind him to eat before it gets cold. Nicolas eats but keeps his eyes on the other. “Tells you how much fun I had with that one, doesn’t it.”

Suddenly Nicolas remembers the other’s pale face at the sight of him. He doesn’t know how he remembers because he was beyond overdosed at the time and on the verge of unconsciousness, but he remembers. He puts his fork down. Worick notices.

“Hey, eat.” He says, tapping on the outer edge of the plate this time.

“Sssorry-” Nicolas speaks. Worick’s brow furrows slightly.

“For what?”

Nicolas keeps quiet. He looks down at the plate and he’s in his own world again. When he’s like this he’s off somewhere Worick can never get to, no matter how much he tries. He still tries though, because he’s stubborn. Worick moves and sits down on the other chair, reaching for Nic’s hand across the table. He holds it and waits, his grip on it firm but at the same time gentle.

“For what, Nic?” He insists, leaning down slightly to be able to look at the other’s face - concealed behind his fringe as he keeps his eyes glued to the plate. Worick’s grip tightens and Nicolas looks up.

 _I made you worry_. He signals, left hand in the air. _I’ve made you miserable._

Worick’s quiet. Nicolas waits and as he does he gets to thinking again. He’s got three years left, four at best, and what he’s doing to Worick is cruel. Like letting a kid taste honey before the jar is put up on a high shelf and they’re told they can never have it. He’s certain now thats why his father left, why his mother was taken from him before he could ever meet her. As brutal as his father could be after all he was just a coward and what torture it must be to bury your child, to see something you created slowly wither and die. Nicolas should have known better than to let anybody get attached, much less someone as important to him as Worick. He should have kept a low profile, never getting too close to anything or anyone. But now his feet are getting scorched in the fire as he gets pulled down and he’s dragging Worick with him and it’s not fair.

“I know miserable.” Worick says. Nicolas feels his thumb caressing lightly over the back of his hand. “This ain’t it.”

Worick smiles and it’s brittle, but it’s there. Nicolas mimics it unconsciously and now it’s his grip that tightens around the other’s hand. He knows Worick suffers. He has to, there’s no other way. But now Nicolas knows the other has chosen to focus on every moment they do have, on every small thing they can share together. If they can live like this, the two of them, even if it's temporary - it's still bliss.

“Eat.” Worick says, pulling his hand away. He takes the cigar out of his month and leaves it on the ashtray, almost burnt out after letting it dangle from his lips for so long. Nicolas does as he’s told and finishes breakfast, catching Worick’s gaze drifting out to the window one more time.

“It’s kinda happy. Bittersweet.” He says. Nicolas lifts his head up from the plate and the other repeats his statement, turning to him so he can read his lips. When he does so Nicolas stares back, confused, wrinkles appearing at the bridge of his nose when his eyebrows pinch together. Worick smiles at the other’s expression, reaching out to grab the cigar again and tapping the ash off before he brings it back to his lips. “The song.” He says, then takes a drag.

\---

They live in relative quietness for the next two years. Worick takes customers again, out of choice he says, but Nicolas knows it’s because Celebrer prices go up. Twilight population has increased and the demand is high, and so are tensions. There are protests again, like the ones Nic had witnessed when he was young. Hundreds take to the streets and condemn them to hell and Nicolas isn’t bothered because he’s used to it, he’s lived it before. Its when he takes back alleys on his way home and sees children hiding from the main roads, huddled together and clutching at their tags, that he tenses. He doesn’t act on his anger, decided not to a long time ago because no good will ever come of it. What it will boil down to will be an unnecessary altercation and him spilling more blood than he cares to clean up. And no matter what hate they’re spouting _he_ will be the animal, the brute, and that’s exactly what they want. No, it simply isn’t worth it. Nicolas stops carrying his sword on errand day-to-day walks and carries food with him instead. Bread, cheese, some candy. The children will still be scared but at least they won’t be hungry.

On one of these walks to Theo’s clinic for deliveries Nicolas crosses paths with a black cat. Its eyes are green and shine like emeralds under the summer sun and Nicolas stays there, in the middle of the road, staring at it. He crouches down and beckons it to get closer. The cat does but when he sniffs his hand he hisses and Nicolas knows because it shows its teeth and its tail fuzzes up straight. Nicolas carefully attempts to flick at the tag on the collar to see who it belongs to but the cat scratches him and makes him retrieve his hand. He waits for it to scatter away yowling but the feline stays put, looking at him defiantly. Nicolas examines the scratch on his hand nonchalantly and in the second it takes for him to do so the cat approaches him again, this time lapping at the wound. He watches the animal in silence, amused. After some time Nicolas attempts to handle it again and the cat allows it, letting him carry it in his arms as he makes his way to the clinic.

“Kitten!” Nina smiles wide at the sight of Nicolas at the door, the animal curled up on his arms. She quickly approaches him and Nicolas lifts a hand, warning the girl.

_It doesn’t like to be touched that much._

“But usually he’s friendly.” She says. Nicolas tilts his head.

_Does it roam this neighbourhood? Never seen it before._

“Yeah, he’s Lucca!” She says, smiling.

_Collar says Mint._

“No, he’s Lucca.” Nina insists with a small pout. Nicolas half smiles and lets her handle the cat, carefully putting it in her arms. Nina strokes its fur and it purrs happily, its eyes closed.

 _Busy?_ He signals, noticing Nina’s got her clinic gown on and her hair tied back.

“Yeah, lots of people coming in with minor wounds.” She says. “They’re getting rowdy- the people at the rallies-”

Nina stops herself like she doesn’t want to mention it in his presence. Nicolas lifts a hand to pat her head, reassuring her it's alright without words.

 _Deliveries._ He then signals. Nina’s eyes widen and she nods.

“Ah, yes!” She says, turning around to leave the sleeping Lucca on a cushioned chair before she goes to collect the paper bags. She comes back and hands them to Nicolas, each of them stapled with a little note containing the address. “There’s seven but they’re all fairly close.” She smiles. “You won’t have to walk much.”

Nicolas nods. He gestures for her to open her hand and Nina does, presenting her open palm. She blinks curiously and waits as Nicolas reaches for something in one of the front pockets of his pants. He hovers his closed fist over Nina’s hand and then opens it, three wrapped up hard candies falling out. Nina’s face lights up. Nicolas turns around before she can say anything and then waves her goodbye at the door.

When he’s done with the first three houses and begins to look for the fourth he notices something brush against his ankles as he walks. He looks down and finds Lucca, or Mint, nuzzling at his boot with his head. It probably ran out the door when Nina wasn’t looking. The cat follows Nicolas around and when all packages are delivered it also follows him home.

“Who’s this?” Worick smiles when he sees both of them at the door.

 _Lucca._ Nicolas signals. _Or Mint_.

“What do you mean or Mint? Is it a stage name?” He chuckles, crouching down to have a better look at the animal. Nicolas waits for the hissing and the scratch but the cat just stands there, letting Worick pet it with his knuckles brushing under its chin. Worick makes the tag tinkle against the other silver pieces of the collar when he examines it, caressing over the tight stitches on the red leather. “You’re fancy, huh?” He says, then looks up at Nicolas. “He’s chubby. Must have a rich owner.”

Nicolas snorts. _So do I and I’m lean._

“I don’t know about that.” Worick says, one eyebrow raised and grinning. Nicolas nudges him on the side with his foot and almost makes him fall back on his ass. Worick chuckles, keeping himself up with one hand on the floor. “Besides, I’m old money. This is new money chubbiness.” He adds, then looks back down at the cat. He holds his chin like he’s thinking, stroking the cat’s fur with his other hand. Nicolas smiles, snapping his fingers in front of the others face for him to look up again.

_Nina says it's from the neighbourhood._

“Maybe the owner got killed and now he’s just a stray.” Worick says, moving his hand to scratch lightly between the cat’s ears - eyes still on Nicolas. Lucca leans into the other’s touch, purring pleasantly and curling his tail in the air. “A stray with an expensive collar.”

Nicolas shrugs, walking away to leave the leftover brown paper bag on the kitchen table. Worick picks up Lucca from the floor and stands up, holding him in his arms and moving closer to the window. He plays with the cat, letting it chase and swat his fingers with his paws as he wiggles them in the air - not bothered by the sharp claws. Worick leans back against the counter, gaze stuck on the back of Nic’s head as he watches him empty the contents of the brown paper bag on the table. When Nicolas turns around Worick lowers his head. Nicolas stands there in silence for some time. Worick wants to say something but when he looks up to do so the other is signaling.

_Let’s keep it._

\---

Worick gets chased that night. He tries to outrun it, whatever it is, but gravity keeps pulling him back. The tunnel he’s on is dark and humid and hot as all hell. Worick feels heavy so all he can do to try and escape whatever’s chasing him is curse and sweat as he drags his feet, his extremities weighing him down. He looks down on instinct, trying to find out what’s making him move like he’s sinking in quicksand. A hand is wrapped tight around his ankle and its white, ghostly white. Corpse white. There’s no body attached to it but it’s grip is strong, unyielding. Worick runs again, faster this time, and soon sees light. He prays for morning to come as he keeps running but is forced to stop, finding obstacles in the way. A chain hangs from the ceiling of that putrid hole like a noose - a chair below it. Two silver tags dangle from it and shine with the slivers of light coming in from the other side. The body held up by the chain is missing a hand and when Worick recognises it he doesn’t want to cross the tunnel anymore. He wants to stay right there in those sewers, waiting for death. Worick takes steps back but the hand on his ankle is now pushing on his heel, making him walk.

“Worrickk-” He hears. Worick’s heart throbs madly and his muscles tense, strands of hair clinging to his forehead. There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. When he feels it Worick opens his eye, gaze locking on it. It’s not white. “Worri...ckk-”

Worick turns and sees Nicolas sat on the bed looking down at him. He looks concerned.

“Nic-” He says, his voice hoarse. “Nicolas.” Worick claws at him, clutches at his clothes desperately. Nicolas retrieves his hand from his shoulder, gripping Worick’s wrists. “Shit, Nicolas-”

“Worriickk.” Nicolas repeats, trying to pull the other out of his delirium. Worick’s nails dig on the back of his hand and make Nicolas wince in pain. Worick’s coming down from the high, adrenaline pumping through him, but he’s there - aware and conscious. When he hears the noise the other makes his gaze widens because it means that he feels it, that he still feels _something_. Thats enough to bring him back to the present but it’s when he does that he realises his escape from that dream is only momentary, he’ll have to go back to it every night.

“Fuck!” Worick yells frustrated, fist sliding from the other’s hold and hitting the wall. He’s pissed he has these nightmares to deal with now, he’d rather go back to flashes of his father's face - that he could handle. But this? This is a whole other level. Worick brings his knees to his chest, his other hand also sliding away from the other’s hold. He rubs at his face with them and then runs them through his hair, curling in on himself. Nicolas stares at the other, unsure of what to do, but ends up following his first instinct. He reaches for Worick’s hand again, pulling it close to his chest. Worick looks up and there is only silence and the low, metronomic hum of Nic’s heartbeat under his palm. They stay like that until Worick’s own pulse slows down, mirroring it, and the air of the room slowly becomes less dense.

\---

The following morning no words are exchanged about Worick’s nightmare. They have breakfast in silence, with Worick’s gaze out the window and Nicolas feeling Lucca prance around between his legs under the table - tail curled around his calf. Around eleven thirty there’s a call which Worick answers and Nicolas stares at the back of the other’s head until he puts down the receiver. When Worick turns around Nicolas reads the first words of the morning on his lips.

“We have work to do.”

 _Today is Sunday._ Nicolas signals. Lucca jumps up to his lap and Nicolas lets him stay there, lowering the hand with which he signaled to pet his fur.

“You think I’m not pissed off about it?”

They get dressed and as they make they walk down the street Worick briefs Nicolas on the nature of the call. Apparently Chad had been forwarded a memo from the Paulklee Guild about the Twilights that had wreaked havoc in Termini a few years back.

“It said any information available should be made known to the head personally.” Worick says, struggling to get his lighter to work. He slurs his words as he tries to keep the cigarette from falling out of his mouth and makes Nicolas miss a few of them.

 _Gina_. Nicolas signals, then steals the lighter from Worick’s hand. He cocks back the pusher fast, rolling his thumb’s fingertip over the wheel. The flame comes up and Worick smiles, leaning down to light up. He stays there, eyes on Nicolas till the paper starts to burn and smoke comes up drawing a curtain between them.

“Bingo.” Worick says, holding the cigarette between his fingers after he takes the first drag. “They were not part of the guild, technically out of Gina’s jurisdiction, but it’s still her job to bring in rogues so she needs to offer some explanation as to why they managed to go unnoticed under her watch. She wants us to spit out everything we can recall from the incident.”

They arrive at zero street around twelve thirty. Once they’re at the gates Worick catches sight of Nic’s grip tightening on the handle of his sword.

“Hey, no funny business here.” He says, turning to him. “I know you’re not on good terms but this is Gina we’re talking. You pull a move and she’ll have you on the floor with seven downers on your neck faster than a rabbit gets fucked.”

Nicolas mouth curls in a snarl and he grumbles, but he obeys. He relaxes his grip on the sword.

“Good.” Worick says. He pushes the chain-linked gate and goes in, Nicolas following.

Ginger greets them, leading them inside the warehouse. The place is no more than four or five metal plaques held together by screws and a prayer and Worick wonders just how much of their budget goes directly to purchase the drugs used to bring down high-rankers. Inside, Gina waits for them sat in a worn-looking couch, smoking.

“Sir, they’re here for the Termini incident.” Ginger speaks. Gina nods and waves a hand. Ginger leaves and it’s not until Gina feels like it that she even spares a glance at the both of them, lipstick staining the cigar every time she takes a drag. She looks disinterested even when it was by her own demand that they’re now in her presence.

“What a mess that was to clean up.” She says, glance dragging from Worick to Nicolas. “You oughta learn how to slice cleaner cuts with that blade of yours. Some of them were so ravaged identification was near impossible.”

“That was me.” Worick says. Gina’s eyes are back on him and now they are narrow, intrigued.

“Ah.” She says. Her pursed lips curl in a smile that makes Nic’s skin crawl. “I see.”

“Wasn’t even our job to deal with that mess in the first place.” Worick says, diverting the conversation. He shifts his weight from his left leg to his right. “Where were you? That type of stuff’s your business.”

“We had no records for them, they turned up out of the blue. My best guess is they came in directly from South Gate and somehow managed to bypass my security.” Gina says. She smokes slowly, exhaling big clouds which she blows up towards the ceiling. “Apparently they were little ones, easy to miss. Correct?”

Worick’s fists tighten briefly. Nicolas notices and watches as he slowly uncurls his fingers, tension dissipating.

“Yes.” He says. “Small, low rank. Twenty of them. Didn’t speak very much but proved very confrontational. Killed several policemen.”

“Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Dddeeafff.” Nicolas says. Gina turns to him and when she speaks next the unsettling smile is there again.

“Well.” She says. “What a coincidence.”

“We done here?” Worick says, his tone suddenly snappish.

“I’m afraid not.” Gina says, leaning forward and squashing her cigar down on the metal ashtray to put it out. “You’ll work with unit 92 to survey the South Gate entrance, talk to people. Any information you can get us about those twenty will do.”

“We work for pay.” Worick says, no longer hiding the disdain in his voice.

“You’ll get your money when I get my intel.” She says, crossing her legs as she leans back on the couch. “Now get going, the unit is waiting. You two behave, I don’t want any unnecessary clashes. Understood?”

Worick grits his teeth as they walk out the building and Nicolas can tell he’s tense because of the way he pats down his pockets. He rummages through the fabric desperately and when he finds the carton of cigarettes he clutches it in his hand like it could vanish into thin air if he were to hold it with a gentler grasp.

“...making us clean up after her fuck ups- shit-” Is all Nicolas manages to catch before Worick’s mouth closes around the cigarette. Worick meets his gaze once he looks up from his lighter but quickly looks off to the side. Its no use for him to hide, Nicolas thinks, when his hands shake the way they do as he holds the smoke between his fingers. It had been five years but he was still haunted by it and Nicolas was certain the recent nightmares were a product of that incident.

“You the handymen?” Worick turns his head towards the voice and Nicolas follows his gaze. One man turns the corner and advances towards them, a unit of four tagged following him. He’s tall, broad of build, with buzzcut blond hair and the face of someone who is in no mood to put up with anyone’s bullshit. “Only two of you, huh? I wouldda thought it was thirty the way you cleared that Church, shit was fucking barbaric. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces.”

 _Next time we’ll ask them to just drop dead nice and quiet. See how that works._ Nicolas signals. Worick snorts.

“What’d he say?” The guy frowns, a few of the tagged standing behind him imitating the gesture.

“He says it’s real nice to meet you.” Worick smiles and the man groans, pissed at being left out of the loop.

“You keep that shit to the minimum, my patience runs thin real fast. I ain’t here to decode the cute little exchanges you have with your lapdog.” He says. “You’re hired to cover our asses in case any of the tagged on the border have a loose screw and decide to throw themselves at us and that’s what you’ll do. No interfering with the mission or fucking around. We clear?”

“Crystal.” Worick says, the smile disappearing as quickly as it showed up.

After that brief introduction they make their way to the South Gate. Worick walks ahead Nicolas takes the opportunity to greet the unit himself. He turns around, standing still, facing the guy and his crew.

“Mmmy fffriennn..dd hee…re. Doesssn’t workk well wi..tthh peoppl..ee.” He says, a grin on his face as he watches the reaction his voice has on the others. “Hesss’ fffeeeling a bit peevvedd...havvi..ngg tto worrkk on a weekend. Yyyou ddon’t wann..nna ppisss himm offf. It wii..ll be the lasssst thin..nng yyoou ddoo.”

“What the-” He reads on the taller guy’s lips. When he sees the rest is babbling he turns around, following Worick - sword in his hand. The unit follows after them, never walking next to them or ahead. After some time, Worick notices.

“Now what d’you do.” Worick asks, amused. “They’re scared shitless.”

 _Nothing._ Nicolas signals, but there’s half a smile on his face. _Just helped then fall back in line._

“You’re so full of it.” Worick laughs and Nic’s grin grows wider, showing his teeth.

They get to South Gate soon enough and set up a formation to talk to passerbies on the border. Worick let’s them handle it, happy to be able to cash in for doing nothing more than babysitting a group of mercenaries for the day. As him and Nicolas watch from the sidelines Worick wonders just how efficient the guild can be when they send a whole unit and two bodyguards to do a job which could be easily handled by a ten year old playing reporter.

“Hey.” Worick says, looking down. Nicolas is sat on the floor, back against a chain linked fence - sword between his knees. Worick moves a hand to brush through his hair when the other doesn’t respond and Nicolas looks up, closing his eyes briefly at the touch - enjoying it. Worick smiles and waits for the other to blink his eyes open again. “You hungry?”

Nicolas nods.

“What were you thinking?” Worick says, curious. The other hadn’t been very talkative that morning. Maybe he couldn’t contain himself from asking about his nightmare and had decided to keep quiet out of respect for his privacy. Worick appreciated it, if that was the case, but worried his own silence would have come across as rude or dismissive. After all his only words for him that morning had been about work. When Nicolas lifts his arms to signal Worick pushes his chin forward, paying attention.

_That I wanna cut the asshole who called me a lapdog into tiny little pieces._

Worick snorts, diverting his gaze when moves a hand to reach into his jacket’s front pocket. He takes out an apple and throws it at Nicolas, who catches it in the air. Worick watches him bite into it angrily and grins, he knew the comment would have hit a nerve. Worick pats the other on the head and Nicolas looks up at him again.

“Down, boy.” Worick says, adding nothing more. He laughs when Nic’s brow furrows and lifts his right hand to flip him off.

A scream makes Worick pull out his handgun and Nic’s eyes widen at the sudden movement. He drops the apple and follows Worick’s gaze to find one of the mercenaries on the ground, blood staining his clothes. The other three are scattered, trying to contain the civilian casualties to a minimum by advising people to stay behind the border, and only the taller guy who they spoke to before remains. In front of him a tagged young man waves a weapon, a dagger of some kind.

“We’re tagged, you lowlife! We’re from the guild!” The tall man speaks. Worick walks towards the scene and Nicolas stands up, unsheathing his sword and following him. When they’re near the leader he quickly grows aware of their presence. “Some bodyguards you are! One of my men got fucking sliced while you were back there plucking daisies!”

“Shut up.” Worick speaks, having had enough of the other running his tongue. He moves his gaze to the tagged, noticing he looks agitated - his hands shaking as they grip the handle of the blunt knife. Worick had expected an altercation of some kind but had lowered his guard once he realised most of the people at the scene were Twilights. If any confrontation was to take place it would have been an attack on a normal as retaliation for the growing anti-twilight movement. He wasn’t expecting a tagged to kill one of its kind.“You’re attacking Twilights here. All of these men are tagged, like you.”

“I won’t let you trash into my town!” The young man yells, his gaze not on Worick but on the civilians who cower behind the three lined up mercenaries at the border. When he hears that Worick’s confusion grows larger because he’s convinced the young man had just crossed over too. He was not from Ergastulum. “You’re all sick and filthy! You have to be killed!”

The kid opens his mouth to speak again but stops once Nic’s sword is on his throat. Worick hadn’t even noticed the other was advancing and now can only watch as Nicolas moves the blade through the pleats of the young man’s clothes, fishing the tag hanging from his neck and pulling on it.

“Whatt...ss thisss, the..nnn?” Nicolas says. Worick’s waiting for him to go a-wall any minute now but his stance is not combative, he’s relaxed. Worick has absolutely no idea whats going on.

“I’m the lowest rank!” The kid yells but his voice trembles and he sounds desperate. Now that Worick’s got the oportunity to take a good look at him he realises he can’t be older than sixteen. “I’m normal, I’m not like them!”

“Yyyooo...oou arre.” Nicolas says, moving his arm so the blade pulls on the chain again - the tag shining bright under the summer sun. The kid grows visibly distressed and drops the knife to clutch at the chain, trying to hide it in the pleats of his shirt again. His knuckles brush against Nic’s blade and get skinned but he doesn’t react to it - too absorbed in his desperate attempt to conceal the tag. He looks horrified but it’s not to do with Nic’s presence, he’s not scared. Its not until Worick’s gaze focuses on Nic’s expression- a resigned, pained look - that he realises the kid isn’t just a loose screw. People like him had started to show up at rallies; low-rank tagged who felt they didn’t belong on either side, who hated their very existence. They weren’t human enough to be treated as normals nor ranked high enough to be considered by other Twilights as one their own. Suddenly the kid’s gaze darts from side to side before looking down, giving up on trying to conceal the tag. At that moment Worick sees it clearly; he’s not panicking. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and is embarrassed he’s been found out. He’s ashamed of his own nature.

Nic parts his lips, wanting to add to his statement, but in the second it takes him to come up with the words gunshots are fired. The kid drops to the floor and Nicolas can only stare as the chain slides off his blade and follows the body to the ground. Worick’s blood boils because he knows exactly who fired the rounds. He turns to find the mercenary’s lead man pointing his weapon, smoke curling out of the barrel.

“You spineless pig.” Worick hisses, cocking his gun. He walks towards the man, shooting the weapon out of his hand when the other has the audacity to point it at him too.

“Shit, you fucking lunatic!” The man hisses. His knees buckle and make him fall to the ground, clutching his bloody hand.

“It was one kid.” Worick says, looming over the other. He pushes the canon of the gun against the man’s temple until the skin wrinkles under the metal. “One kid, you fucking coward.”

“So? How many did you two finish in Termini?” He says, spitting the words. “Eleven? More? Don’t give me that mercy shit, you know what this job is like.”

“Shut your mouth.” Worick’s voice raises, his finger on the trigger loose and ready. He has no problem blowing this guy’s brains out given he doesn’t seem to be making that much use of them in the first place. Worick has spilled so much blood already, whats’ a few more drops gonna do to his conscience? _And he deserves it_ , he tells himself. _He deserves it_.

“Worr..rrick.” Nicolas says. Worick looks over his shoulder and finds him standing there, sword back on its sheath. He says nothing more but the look he gives Worick speaks volumes and is enough for Worick to lower his gun, pushing the safety lock as he puts it back on his holster. He turns his back on the man and is about to start walking away when the other unwisely decides to run his mouth again.

“Crazy son of a bitch-” He mutters, but is unfortunately loud enough for the other to hear. Worick turns back around, throwing a punch straight to the man’s jaw which knocks him unconscious. The man falls to the ground, lifting a cloud of dust when his body hits the floor. Worick looks up, flexing his fingers as he keeps his eyes on the rest of the mercenaries still containing civilians at the border.

“You guys clean this up. Tell Gina she ought to have a better selection process if morons like this one are making the cut.” He says, then turns around and starts walking. Nicolas follows suit.

 _You done?_ Nicolas signals, smiling when he sees the other flapping his hand in the air - likely complaining about the pain.

“I am now.” Worick says, his mouth curving into an _ow_ as he rubs his right hand with his left. Nicolas snorts, forever amused at how quickly Worick’s true character shows through after each of these violent stunts of his.

Their walk home is quiet but they have some of the loudest sex they’ve ever had that night. Nicolas can only imagine the strain the other is putting on his voice, feeling the almost uninterrupted vibration on his lips as he kisses with an open mouth over his throat. Worick is under him, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Nicolas assumes the intensity with which Worick’s urging him to go at it must have something to do with him still needing to blow off some steam. But then Worick’s hands run through the short black hair, cupping his jaw as they kiss - their foreheads pressed together. It’s too intimate for this to just be Worick’s way of de-stressing and Nicolas stops analyzing it, sighing into the other’s mouth, letting him taste his silence.

The following morning Worick goes down to the station and writes up a report which he then drops on top of Chad’s desk unceremoniously. The stack of papers falls with a loud thud and Chad jumps from behind the desk, the newspaper he was reading crinkling under his fingers.

“Jesus, Worick. Learn to fucking knock.” He says, folding the paper and smacking it down on the table.

“This is it.” Worick says, then turns around and starts walking.

“Wait- what the hell do you mean this is it-” Chad says, getting up on his feet and grabbing the folder. Worick doesn’t stop. “Hey, wait a minute!”

“Get off my case, Chad. Talk it over with Gina if you need more details, we did our part.” Worick says, waving a hand in the air before he turns the corner and shows himself out. “I’m on vacation.”

\---

Its August and the heat is unbearable. Worick ends up in his boxers to try and cool off only because Nicolas won’t let him prance around the house naked but if it was his choice he’d get rid of them too. In afternoons like these all one can do is sit still and hope to God a merciful breeze gets in through the window when the sun goes down and that’s exactly what they do. They sit on the couch, Nicolas laying down with Lucca on his belly. Even in this heat Nicolas still allows him to be on his lap, still plays with him despite the sweltering heat making him sweat with every move and Worick can only wonder just how much love he harbors for the animal. Worick sits at the feet of the couch with a book in his hands, reading. Suddenly he looks up and taps Nicolas on one of his knees, demanding his attention.

“Hey.” He says, smiling when the other tilts his head to circumvent the fat ball of fur which sits in the middle of his field of vision. “What about Gina.”

 _What about her?_ Nicolas signals, left hand in the air.

“I was thinking.” Worick says. “She’s old.”

Nicolas looks back at him with a _duh_ expression and Worick snorts.

“Does anybody know how old?” Worick asks, still chuckling at the look on the other’s face. Nicolas keeps quiet for a moment, moving his gaze around the room, thinking. Lucca paws at his face delicately, pats his nose like he’s powdering it until Nicolas turns to Worick again and he stops - startled.

_Don’t think so. Looks about fifty something to me._

“Huh.” Worick says.

_But we’re not cut from the same cloth. She’s got northern blood in her, vikings and shit. I’m not like that._

“Clearly.” Worick says, grinning. He puts the book down and looks at Nicolas, an elbow perched up on the couch cushion as he rests his right hand on his cheek. Worick waits for him to get that this is another jab at his height and when he does Nicolas sits up solely for the purpose of elbowing him. Worick laughs, Lucca jumping off the couch and meowing in complaint for being robbed of his spot - staring up at the other two from the floor. Nicolas picks him up immediately and Worick smiles, leaning back on the couch as he watches him pet the animal. He nudges Nicolas on the arm to get him to look up. “You’re spoiling him, you know.”

The corner of Nic’s month curls up slightly. He moves his hands. _Bad habit of mine with pets, yes_.

“Whatever.” Worick says, standing up. Nicolas follows him with his gaze and his smile widens when he spots the tips of the other’s ears peep blushed red between strands of hair. Worick turns around to face him again, hands on his hips. “I’m taking a shower, this heat is ridiculous. You keep an eye on the cat, last time he snuck in and got wet.”

 _And probably traumatised_. Nicolas signals, smile still on his face. Worick laughs.

“Yeah? Well you ain’t complaining.” He says, smirking, lowering a hand to play with the elastic on his boxers. Nicolas is too distracted by the other’s movements to remember his ego is at stake so he just stares. He immediately regrets it when the other turns back around and walks to the bathroom triumphantly, leaving him there - simmering in his lust.

As the other showers Nicolas does some thinking of his own. He watches Lucca absentmindedly, letting him roam free when he decides he’s had enough of sitting on his lap and moves to bask in the sun on the windowsill. When Worick comes back out, towel around his hips, Nicolas calls his attention by waving a hand.

_Have you been sleeping well?_

Worick stands there and blinks once, caught off guard by the question.

“Yeah.” He lies. Nicolas can tell and beckons him to get closer. Worick is hesitant but he does, standing in front of the other who remains sat on the couch.

 _It was not your fault._ Nicolas signals. _The kid._

“I know.” He says. “I know, Nic.”

_Do you?_

Worick’s eyebrows pinch together lightly, hair falling on his face with droplets of water sliding down on the strands and falling onto the floor. He looks away and is about to walk away too when Nicolas reaches to grab at his wrist, making him stay. Worick looks back at him.

“I’m fine.” He lies, again.

_You’re not._

Worick sighs, cursing under his breath so fast that Nicolas can’t catch it.

“Okay. Okay, I’m not.” He says, his exposed eye narrowing.“You done now? You happy?”

“Worr..rrick-”

“Look.” Worick says, interrupting. “It’s not the kids at the Church anymore, not even the one at the South Gate. I see _you_ now. I see you dead and I can’t do jack shit about it.”

“I-I dddoo..nnn’tt-”

“You think I can sleep at night with that on my mind?” Worick’s voice rises and Nicolas can’t pick up on but he notices his demeanor has changed when the other pulls away from his grasp, his expression desperate. “You think I’m not trying?”

Nicolas watches the other, his gaze darting back and forth from the rest of his features to his lips - waiting for something else. When it doesn’t come and the other just stands there, revealing his fear, Nicolas realises that even if he has made his own peace with it it doesn’t mean people around him have. That even if Worick isn’t blaming himself for it anymore it may still take him, of all people, the longest period of time to accept it when it happens. He feels a sense of helplessness knowing he won’t be there to guide Worick through it and all of a sudden understands the other’s struggle. He feels frustrated, defeated in this race against time. There’s nothing either of them can do.

\---

By fall they’re back in business again and Chad wastes no time in putting them to work. They’re told to deal with Barry Abott, a pimp who’s been meddling in the territories of other organized groups and making a mess of an otherwise “peaceful” arrangement. Its free game, a wipeout, as Nicolas calls it. They’re to get rid of him and his followers, his girls too.

Nic starts working as soon as Worick turns his back. Worick lets him have his fun and breaks off to start a search of his own. Apparently the woman they’d spotted a few days back working in the alleyway near their place was one of Barry’s girls. When Worick comes back, having had a talk with the woman, Nicolas has taken care of most of the group - but it’s Worick who ends up finishing off the main target. Nicolas had seen the woman before, since her spot in the alleyway was visible from the window, but when she reappears out of the shadows Nicolas stares like its the first time he’s ever seen her. He stands there, mouth parted, and it’s an expression that’s neither sad nor happy. He’s simply in awe, like he just saw an apparition. Something in her reminds him of the barefoot girl with the dirty face and feathered wings who left him there, bleeding on the stoned path to the Cathedral. The woman picks up Worick’s weapon and Nicolas is on guard but backs down when he sees her open fire on Abott’s corpse. Nicolas grins, amused, because how fitting that the only angel he ever gets to meet is one of death.

\---

Nicolas breathes his last on a Sunday. Peacefully, in his sleep.

There’s a funeral. A simple thing, no flourishings as per his request. Only Chad, Nina and him show up - Alex having ventured off to find his brother a year before Nic’s passing. Worick doesn’t cry. When he goes home and pours coffee into two cups instead of one, that's when he crumbles.

Later that evening, with Lucca on his lap, Worick sits in one of the kitchen chairs and absentmindedly fiddles with the radio buttons as he smokes. When he realises he’s not supposed to it's too late and the transmission is lost - he can’t find the right frequency. Mingus, Billie and Sinatra are all gone.

Doctors now know that Twilights feel it coming. Nicolas died of old age, pushing the life expectancy for his kind at thirty nine, but he felt it coming and that fact alone is the reason why for the first month Worick finds himself struggling to sleep at night once more. Nina checks in on him when some time passes and he doesn’t show up at the clinic and finds him exhausted, drained of energy and with almost no food in the fridge. She brings him meals and medication for his headaches but he doesn’t seem to improve. He keeps running through tunnels and mazes in his head, desperately trying to find his way out. It’s always hot, always, and he feels the flames burning on his skin. One day, however, they turn off like a light switch. The nightmares are no more and Worick sleeps soundly. The next day he leaves the house for the first time in two weeks.

It takes Worick two more weeks after that to find where Nicolas had hidden his possessions. There was nothing on him when he found him in bed, his pockets were empty and his cupboards had been cleaned out. When Worick is looking for clothes to wear one morning he pulls out a bundled sheet from the depths of the built-in closet. Everything Nicolas had ever owned is there. His clothes, his sword, a few scribbled letters. His tag is there too and now Worick wears it around his neck, hidden under his clothes - next to Big Mama’s rosary.

\---

The situation of the Twilights had improved in the last years of Nic’s life. There was less misinformation and more tolerance and that had made it possible for them to enjoy a much more peaceful life. Now, two years after, there is still violence in the city but it’s nowhere near what it once was. The anti-twilight movement has died off almost completely and even the three principles and the tagged system are now being questioned out in the open. Worick is forty one.

He lives in the same place, the same rented room that became a home. The rent is down from two to one, now. Or one and a half let’s say, since it's just him and Lucca. Occasionally Nina visits and every time she does Worick insists on measuring her height by hand because now it’s just getting ridiculous. Worick still takes the odd job from Chad but nothing major and lives day by day, quietly, without complications. He takes pleasure in the little things. That Monday morning he watches amused as Lucca chases away a fly that came in through the open window, hearing the sound of bells when the clock strikes ten. When he’s done with breakfast he clears the table and moves to sit on the windowsill, smoking as he checks the mail. There’s a letter from Alex with a photo of her and her brother inside and they’re the spitting image of each other. He puts it down and looks off into the distance and feels a sense of peace overcoming him. He can still hear him sometimes. _Sleep, eat_ , he says. _Live_. That or he groans a _moron_ when Worick forgets the keys. Worick wanted to answer back during the first year, tell him he should know it's not easy to survive here on your own. Now he just lets it be, lets him be the voice of reason at the back of his head he’s always lacked.

Worick has his gaze amongst the rooftops when suddenly he remembers something the other had said to him. One night with the both of them in bed, breathless and bare. Nic’s voice slow and stumbling. _I won’t be up there_. He’d said, but had said it with no grief or pain - like he was sure and had accepted it. Like he could finally, after years of wondering, confirm it. Worick smiles and looks down at the ground. At the earth, the sewers, the fire. The other is not ethereal. He never was and is not meant for all of that, for the choirs and the heavens parting for him. It’s not his style. Worick smiles, taking a drag and letting the smoke cloud his gaze. He knows that wherever Nic is he’s being a handful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! And for the kudos and comments, seriously, it means the world! I made a little mix for this, you can find it here: http://8tracks.com/noemail21/two
> 
> Thanks again!


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